Friday, January 20, 2012

My house has been for sale a few months now, so I've learned the realtors' showing schedule coincides with days it looks as though a herd of wildebeests has been mating in the living room.

Thursday morning, I was putting the finishing touches on tidying for a 10 a.m. showing. I wonder whether anyone even notices if I've scrubbed the shower or wiped down the kitchen counters, I mused. I wonder what sort of things people comment on as they walk through the house.

BOING!

That's the sound of me having an idea. A really good idea.

What if I pretended to vacate the premises as usual, but actually hid under the bed in the guest room? I could listen to the entire showing, and hear what people say about my house. That sort of feedback could be valuable, right?

Plus I'm nosy. There's always that.

I scuttled into the guest room to make sure my plan would work. I got down on the floor and stuck my head under the bed, testing to be certain my skull wasn't too big to fit.

All clear.

I'm a pretty small person, so I figured the rest of me would slide neatly beneath the bed without a hitch.

But I forgot about the one part of me that isn't so small.

My housemate walked in just in time to find me wedged halfway under the bed and stuck – totally, completely stuck – on my boobs.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Thinking about hiding under the bed," I replied with as much nonchalance as I could muster with my rack caught in a vice grip.

"How's that working out for you?"

"Not so well."

I struggled a little, then began to panic. What if I couldn't free myself? Would my housemate be able to help? Would I be stuck there until the fire department arrived or the realtors showed up with their house-hunting clients? I could imagine the conversation:

And here we have the spacious kitchen with cherry cabinets and lovely granite counters, and over here we have a romance author who's oblivious to the dimensions of her own body.

I squirmed again, more frantic this time.

"Need a hand?" My housemate asked.

"My boobs are stuck," I admitted.

"That's not something I hear every day."

"Pity," I yelped as I finally freed myself and crawled out from under the bed.

Thoroughly discouraged, I finished the last tidbits of tidying before I slunk to my car and left in disgrace.

I should probably be embarrassed about the whole thing, but mostly I'm just annoyed. I really did want to eavesdrop. Who would have guessed my boobs would be a barrier to my own nosiness?

I can't say I've ever gotten stuck via my chest, but my hips are another story. I had to break into my own house once through a small bathroom window and had to do some serious wiggling to get through. I'm sure my husband thought it was hilarious.

Our library's back stacks has compact shelving -- the kind you crank open and shut, to save space -- and I'm always too impatient to crank the aisle all the way open. Guess what's happened more than once?

The last time, I knocked (pun intended) an entire shelf of encylopedias to the floor trying to get free . . .

This is why I never buy it when women described as 'voluptuous' (or on screen are clearly sporting a pair of Cs or even Bs) are able to disguise themselves successfully as men. Especially slim, boyish men who wouldn't have man cleavage. Or hips, for that matter.

Nope. Men (hetero or not) may be blind to a lot of things, but boobs aren't two of them.